


A Pirate's Silver

by KitCat_Italica



Series: Yours, Always [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (which is also practically canon), (which is canon), And Be With Aziraphale, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), But Mostly Just Sweetness, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley and Aziraphale Have Been Married Since Eden, Eighteenth Century, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Happy Ending, He Hates Sailing, He Just Wants To Drink, He's Not A Very Good Pirate Though, Humor, Light Angst, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Pining, Pining While Married, Pirate Crowley (Good Omens), Psychic Bond, Secret Marriage, Some Action, Wedding Rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23623444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitCat_Italica/pseuds/KitCat_Italica
Summary: Of all the modes of travel humans had invented, Crowley hated sailing the most.  But Hell had given him this specific assignment of captaining a Mediterranean pirate vessel, with specific instructions to tempt the crew on the way to Tripoli.  So here he was.  No miracles could get him out of spending his 1741 on this stupid,stupidboat.As was Crowley’s habit on quiet nights like this—in the middle of shit assignments and with nothing to distract him from his thoughts—he closed his hand around his wedding ring.  He pressed it close to his chest, holding his breath.Angel,his mind whispered.You there?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Yours, Always [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1700482
Comments: 21
Kudos: 211
Collections: Courts GO Re-Reads, Ixnael’s Recommendations





	A Pirate's Silver

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the 18th century, so it's long before the first installment in this series. Totally works as a stand-alone, though!
> 
> I wrote this because Ilarual commented on the last fic that Crowley and Aziraphale being married since Eden "still leaves you with years of yearning separation and the pain of forbidden love, but there's a completely different flavor to it when they're already married." And my brain was like _yes, gimme that different flavor of angst please and thank you._ So here we are.
> 
> I hope everyone's doing okay with the pandemic and being in quarantine. Being sick is awful, but isolation can be hard, too. If you're feeling lonely, I'm begging you, _please_ don't be like my roommate and invite your boyfriend over for sex anyway. Be like Aziraphale and Crowley, and have long-distance sex with your partner instead! In times like these, phone sex (or sex through a psychic connection via enchanted wedding rings) saves lives :)

Of all the modes of travel humans had invented, Crowley hated sailing the most.

He hated the rocking motion of the ship throwing off his inner ear balance. He hated the perpetual damp wood smell that made him gag. He hated seeing the humans packed in like whatever-it-is-that-gets-squished-together-in-close-quarters, stinking of piss and bleeding out their gums from scurvy. He hated the wormy hardtack and shit alcohol—even if he technically didn’t need either, and even though they each changed into something more palatable once they passed his lips. It was the principle of the thing.

But Hell had given him this specific assignment of captaining a Mediterranean pirate vessel, with specific instructions to tempt the crew on the way to Tripoli. So here he was. No miracles could get him out of spending his 1741 on this stupid, _stupid_ boat.

At least he didn’t have to work too hard. These sorts of conditions would make even the most saint-like human give into their baser urges of wrath, sloth, or greed. And his crew hadn’t been saints to begin with. He’d witnessed no less than seventeen brawls in the last week among the men, over every accusation imaginable: who cheated on games of dice; who stole a ration of hardtack from whom; who slacked on pulling their rope to raise sail; even something like who looked at someone funny.

Heaven-destined, these men were not. All Crowley had to do was sit back, and watch them earn their places Downstairs.

Not to mention that being the captain had its perks. He got his own quarters, and an excuse to wear a stylish scarlet-lined black coat and tricorn instead of the others’ sweat-stained white linens.

And most importantly, he got first dibs on the booze. 

It was the dead of night when he sauntered into his quarters again, having made off with the last good bottle of rum. Most others were asleep except for the night crew and lookouts. If Crowley hadn’t kept getting surprise visits from Duke Hastur every few days, he would’ve slept through this whole journey.

Instead, he was stuck swaying on his feet from the alcohol already in his system. That, and from _being on a fucking boat._

__

__

He took another swig from the bottle. If you’ve gotta be awake on a ship, might as well be drunk for it.

Standing soon became too big of an ask for his body and brain to coordinate. He gracefully sank (ok, maybe he nearly tripped) onto the chair at his desk. His hat tipped forward onto his brow at the sudden movement. He flicked it to the floor, propped his feet up on the desk, and downed another few swallows of rum.

 _Slam,_ went his feet on the desk. _Slam,_ went the bottle on the same surface. _Slam,_ went his head on the back of his chair.

Three more days. Three more shit days on this shit assignment. _Shit shit shit shit_ shit.

He sat there stewing for a while. But as the night wore on, the waves rocked him rhythmically, the creaking of the wood and ropes quieting his thoughts. His eyes flicked from the navigation charts on his desk, to the half-moon and starlight out the window.

They were headed southeast. Since his cabin was at the stern, his window was facing northwest. And somewhere in that direction, hundreds of miles away, was England.

And in England, there lived the reason Crowley’s unnecessary heart beat loudly in his chest.

He reached under the neck of his black silk shirt. A silver chain caught around his fingers. The crew might’ve seen the silver around his neck at some point. They didn’t question it; he was a captain of a successful pirate vessel, of course he kept something valuable on his person.

But what was _on_ the chain held more value to him than any old precious metal.

He drew it out from under his shirt. There, dangling from the chain, gleaming star-bright in the light of the moon, was a simple, silver ring.

He sat there staring at it for a long time. It swung almost hypnotically from where he was pinching the chain. The ring shone so brightly, its surface flawless—he’d miracled it over two thousand years ago to never tarnish. 

And just as flawless were the memories it brought back.

He’d had a different name when he’d been given this ring in Rome. He’d lost the one before that—a beautiful rose gold one exchanged in Athens. Another silver one in Jerusalem, a brass one in Babylon, and the first one—a weaving of twined reeds around his finger—in Memphis, in Egypt’s first great kingdom.

All of them were precious. But this one more than any of them, and not just because he’d held onto this one the longest.

This ring had a unique miracle attached to it. 

It had been Aziraphale’s idea. They would argue about anything and nothing, though most of it was never serious. But the one major fight they would always have was how to handle their… _association._ (That was another point of contention on Crowley’s part: if they couldn’t even call it what it was out loud, what was even the point?)

Crowley wanted to be more open about it all. To live without fear. Humans either wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t care, or would meet the fate of any mortal who dared to harass a supernatural being. Their Head Offices, meanwhile, hadn’t noticed that they’d been secretly meeting one another all this time, or that they’d started picking up each other’s job duties for the last seven centuries. 

How were they going to find out that he and Aziraphale had been secretly married for the last six thousand years?

Aziraphale, on the other hand, always counseled caution. He would quickly let go of Crowley’s hand in public. He would always look over his shoulder when they walked the streets together. He’d become a master of arranging excuses for their job duties to involve the same city, in case they ever needed to answer for their whereabouts to Upstairs or Down.

He even wanted them to hide their rings. He always wore his on his right pinky. _Unmarried men wear rings on this finger all the time,_ he’d said. _It’s a symbol of status, or belonging to a group._

__

__

_So you’d rather be part of the mafia than my husband?_ Crowley had snapped.

 _No!_ Aziraphale had snapped back. _I’d rather pretend to Heaven that you are nothing but my distant enemy, so you can_ continue to stay alive.

Crowley couldn’t deny that the angel was right. That ever since they’d first met, ever since that first day of an Eden without humans, when he’d first shared conversation with Aziraphale, when he’d first laughed with Aziraphale, when they’d first shared touches, and kisses, and so much more, and in the afterglow when they’d vowed to stay true to one another… 

He knew they’d placed themselves in mortal (or immortal) danger. If the slightest hint of it ever got up to Heaven or down to Hell, he and Aziraphale were done. And not just done with seeing each other; they’d be done with existing in general. 

Aziraphale was just trying to protect them both, so they could survive on what few scraps of affection they could get away with. Deep down, Crowley knew it wasn’t fair to be upset with the angel for that.

But Crowley didn’t just want to survive. He wanted to _live._

__

__

So, Aziraphale had given him a compromise. When they’d exchanged new rings in Rome to replace the ones they’d each lost, Aziraphale performed a quick miracle on both of them.

 _We’ve already attuned our senses to each other,_ he’d explained to Crowley. _Now our rings will do the same._

__

__

As was Crowley’s habit on quiet nights like this—in the middle of shit assignments and with nothing to distract him from his thoughts—he closed his hand around his wedding ring. He pressed it close to his chest, holding his breath.

 _Angel,_ his mind whispered. _You there?_

__

__

It didn’t work like writing a letter; the rings didn’t transmit their thoughts word-for-word. One day, Crowley hoped the humans would create some form of technology that would do just that. It was only a matter of time; after all, he and Aziraphale weren’t the only beings on Earth having to navigate long-distance relationships.

But he’d found that thinking literal words helped with what the rings could actually do: _sensing_ each other. 

He waited. Nothing. 

Sometimes Aziraphale got distracted. Maybe he was blessing someone. Maybe he was lost in a raspberry tart, or too absorbed in repairing a twelfth-century illuminated manuscript. The thought of him doing any of those things with rapt attention made Crowley’s lips twitch in the beginnings of a smile.

Then… _oh._

__

__

Warmth. It was faint at first in the metal clutched in his palm, but then heated up all at once. Almost as if Aziraphale was suddenly realizing, _Oh dear, Crowley’s calling! I’d better answer!_

__

__

Crowley’s smile formed the rest of the way on his face. _Hey. What’s up?_

__

__

He wasn’t sure how to describe a warmth turning sheepish, but there it was. Then the ring started _vibrating,_ almost like it wanted to start spinning out of control. Crowley breathed a laugh. He could almost hear Aziraphale’s excitement as he rambled about whatever new, wonderful thing he’d discovered. Was it a new food? A new book? A new invention humans had created? Just how delightful his day had been, doing exactly as he pleased without Heaven getting on his case? 

Crowley couldn’t know the details through this method of communication. But they almost didn’t matter. What mattered was that his angel was happy.

Then the vibrations paused. A pulse of warmth pressed a question into his palm. Crowley understood: Aziraphale had asked how _he_ was doing.

Crowley shrugged. _Eh, you know how it is,_ he thought. _Work is dull. These humans are destined for Hell already. Ships are terrible._

__

__

He wished he could communicate exact words. He wished he could tell Aziraphale he was headed for Tripoli, but afterward he might pop into Florence and track down the finest red wine money could buy, and wouldn’t Aziraphale want to see how their mussels and squid measured up this century? 

But he couldn’t tell Aziraphale that level of detail like this. All he could do was share his feelings.

The heat of the ring pulsed in sympathy. Aziraphale must’ve gotten his message that he wasn’t happy. He sent back reassurance. _I’ll be fine._

__

__

There was a pause. Then, his ring released the quietest flood of the most tender emotion Crowley had ever felt. He knew exactly what Aziraphale was saying, almost as if he were whispering it in Crowley’s ear right now:

_I miss you._

__

__

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut. He clutched the ring tighter, the band and its chain leaving little red imprints on his palm. _Miss you too,_ he whispered in his head. _Miss you so blessed much. Need you. Love you. Want you, angel._

__

__

Shit. He hadn’t meant to think the last part. Getting horny on main wasn’t the point of this. He hadn’t even noticed himself getting hard in his trousers until now.

But the warmth of the ring never faded. Instead, it just grew hotter, almost burning his palm. Stirrings of desire poured from the silver. 

As always, as surprising as it was for Crowley even after all these years, Aziraphale wanted him just as badly. 

Sometimes Crowley forgot himself, and started taking his frustration at their secrecy out on Aziraphale. But when he did, he always tried to take a step back and remember moments like this, when his angel’s molten-hot desire flew its true colors. Aziraphale wasn’t keeping their marriage hidden as a _preference._ If it were truly up to his angel, he wouldn’t keep his hands off Crowley for one second, in public or in private. He wanted this every bit as desperately as Crowley did.

And right now, with no one else around, Crowley might as well indulge them both.

With his free hand, he started slowly unlacing his breeches. His breathing grew heavier in the quiet of the cabin. Aziraphale was sending pulses of encouragement. _Yes, dearest,_ he could almost hear the angel breathe. _Yes, that’s it, show me._

__

__

Crowley couldn’t show him. He couldn’t even let him know he was manifesting a cock for this occasion. The last time they’d met in London—at an MP’s posh townhome for a fancy dress party—he’d been Aziraphale’s wife. They’d each covered for a few blessings and temptations each, giggling at each other’s audacity, only to rush to Aziraphale’s lodgings early so he could _ravish_ Crowley till the demon could hardly walk.

Crowley wondered if Aziraphale was imagining him with a cunt tonight. If he was picturing Crowley spreading his rosy folds, circling his clit with his thumb, plunging his fingers in and out of himself with lewd squelching noises from his own slick. Shit, what if _Aziraphale_ was doing that right now? Had he created a beautiful, plump vulva to play with, imagining the large fingers inside him were the long and slender ones of his husband? Or did he have a cock like Crowley did, thick and girthy and drooling from the head, perfectly shaped for Crowley to take into his throat?

Satan, this was making him throb in his hand.

He miracled some oil on his palm, and started to stroke himself. Slowly, at first. He wanted this to last. It helped that he had to do it one-handed, so he could keep holding onto his ring with the other. He wanted to feel every wave of emotion from Aziraphale that he could, straight from the source.

And Aziraphale was giving it. Pulses of warmth, love, adoration, and desire flooded out from the silver. Crowley gave as good as he got. _Yes, angel,_ he whispered in his mind, _keep going, I’m right here, I’ve got you, let me feel you, please…_

__

__

His ring grew hotter. His hand on his cock sped up. He panted hard, breath stuttering on hitched gasps. He had to bite his lips to stifle his quiet groans. 

_Love,_ his ring was saying, _love love love, I love you so much, Crowley, wherever you are, I’ll always love you, I’m yours, I’m yours, always…_

__

__

Crowley squeezed his lips shut against a sobbing moan. It was almost like he’d heard Aziraphale say those last three words out loud, clear as day. _Those were their vows, all those years ago, and he still means them, he’s still mine, and I’m still his, always his, always yours, angel—_

__

__

So many thoughts flew through his head. He couldn’t tell if some of them were his, or what he imagined were thoughts from Aziraphale. Silly, preposterous thoughts. Thoughts like _I want to stay with you forever,_ and _We could find a small cottage together, no one would notice us,_ and _We could retire, bugger Heaven and Hell, it would just be you and me and all the time in this funny old world, we could learn to bake, I’d make you desserts, we could have a little rooftop garden, our own corner of Eden, we could spend entire days in bed just like this and no one would stop us, doing nothing but loving each other, out in the open, every single goddamn day…_

__

__

Shit, he was close. His cock was pulsing in his hand, his ring was pulsing in the other, the heat from both was searing his palms, one from his own desire, the other from Aziraphale’s, he was _almost there—_

__

__

And then Aziraphale was bursting a tidal wave of love and lust in his heart, bright and hot like an exploding star. That did it: Crowley came hard, biting back his groan even as he wanted to _scream_ with the force of his orgasm, trembling and twitching in its grasp until he was spent.

He slumped back in his chair with a loud sigh, relishing the post-orgasmic warmth spreading through his limbs. He could feel the same languid heat emanating from his ring. He squeezed it affectionately. He swore he could feel Aziraphale’s hand squeeze back.

A loud _BANG_ shattered the stillness of the night. 

Crowley nearly fell out of his chair. He clutched onto his desk to right himself, his ring swinging wildly on its chain.

The chain started burning against his skin in alarm. _What’s wrong?_ he could feel Aziraphale asking.

Crowley had the same question. Luckily, the young lookout on duty shouted the answer from the deck: “Spaniards! At the starboard!”

“All hands to arms!” his first mate called.

“Shit,” Crowley muttered under his breath. He snapped his fingers to redo his clothing and clean away the mess. He clambered unsteadily to his feet.

Somehow he got the message to Aziraphale that he had to leave. _Things are getting…exciting._

__

__

But judging by the answering flashes of worry, Aziraphale knew what he really meant: rather than exciting, things were about to get _dangerous._

__

__

_Be careful,_ was the sentiment echoing from his ring. And Crowley would try. He wasn’t a big fan of doing any fighting himself. He’d had enough experience with human wars and pillaging to last a mortal lifetime, let alone an immortal one.

But, sometimes he couldn’t avoid it. So with one last gulp of rum, and one more hurried squeeze to his ring, Crowley grabbed his pistol and sword, and went off to fight some Spaniards.

Of course, it was just Crowley’s luck that they weren’t ordinary Spaniards. They were officers of _the Spanish Royal Navy._ Much better disciplined, better nourished, and better equipped than Crowley’s ragtag little band of pirates.

To say it was a battle was being too generous; it was a massacre. All his crew had to their credit was their enthusiasm. And while sometimes that was all you needed, a Spanish musket ball or bayonet didn’t care how enthusiastic you were to avoid them. They would kill you all the same.

So, most of Crowley’s crew were killed, and the rest were captured. By the time the Spaniards had him and the rest of the survivors on their knees awaiting their fate, Crowley was beyond ready to be done with this assignment, and just _go the fuck home._

__

__

He’d even done an okay job at this. The humans killed were already bound for Hell, and the brutality the Spaniards had shown in the fight was probably a mark against their souls, too. Deciding to execute unarmed prisoners? Ballsy. Definitely a Wrathful move, a sin worthy of eternal damnation. Crowley had better get some recognition for this one.

Wait. 

_Shit._

__

__

_He_ was one of those prisoners about to be executed.

_Shit!_

__

__

“Oh, bugger this,” he muttered. With a flick of his fingers, the Spaniards about to shoot him slipped on the deck, falling on their arses. He miracled himself out of the ropes they’d bound his hands with, and before his captors knew what hit them, he had already flung himself overboard.

They didn’t even try to shoot at him as he swam away. Maybe because they knew that water slowed bullets down so much they lost their lethality. Probably just because they knew he’d die anyway. There was no land for miles around. He would drown from exhaustion trying to swim to safety.

And that would have been the case, if he were a human. But fortunately for him, he wasn’t. This made pesky things like 'breathing' and 'surviving by chance' optional.

He waited a few hours below the surface until his ship and the Spaniards’ sailed beyond the horizon. Only then did he kick back up to the surface.

And wouldn’t you know it, once he reemerged, a British merchant vessel was headed straight for him. They pulled him aboard, and once they’d heard his heartbreaking story (of how he’d been traveling back home to London when a rogue Spanish vessel put his family to death before tossing him overboard), they were happy to give him a cabin and passage back to their shared homeland.

Only once he was alone again, sipping warm tea and huddled in a blanket, did he notice his ring had stopped burning against his chest.

And only once he realized it had _stopped_ burning, did he realize it had been burning in the first place. It might’ve given him a ring-shaped brand on his sternum. (And he might keep it.)

He fished the ring out from under his shirt, clasping it in his palm. He frantically felt for Aziraphale’s presence. Was he in danger? Did he need Crowley? Was he— 

The heat faded to a gentle warmth. _Thank goodness you’re alright,_ he could almost hear Aziraphale say.

Crowley thought back to when he’d last checked in with Aziraphale. Before the battle. Though it had been a short affair, and Crowley had been fueled by his corporation’s adrenaline, he suddenly realized how many close calls he’d had. He could recall several times a Spaniard’s bullet had aimed itself straight at his heart, only to ricochet off some invisible forcefield.

He’d assumed it was his own doing. But he hadn’t been consciously using his powers at all.

It had been _Aziraphale._

__

__

His angel had sat in his London home last night, frantically blessing Crowley with protection. He might’ve convinced the Spaniards to let Crowley go once he’d jumped overboard. He might’ve even nudged the British vessel in the right direction to spot Crowley and welcome him aboard.

Crowley laughed out loud as he realized the significance of that last miracle. A _British_ vessel. Aziraphale had arranged for Crowley to be brought back to Britain. Back to _him._

__

__

_Haven’t gotten tired of me yet, have you?_ he teased into the ring.

Aziraphale’s answering warmth was as gentle as his sweet laughter. _Never._

__

__

Crowley slumped back into the small spare cot the merchants had given him. He huddled further into the blanket, drying his clothes with a quick miracle. Sleep sounded like just the ticket now. Even if he didn’t technically need it, it always helped after major adrenaline rushes like last night.

The warmth in his ring grew fainter, more lethargic. Aziraphale felt tired, too.

Shit. Aziraphale must’ve spent _hours_ working overtime to keep his protective miracles over Crowley in place. Deflecting all those bullets, sending away the Spaniards, bringing the British ship to him, all while hundreds of miles away and unable to see the incoming dangers? His angel must be _exhausted._

__

__

Crowley clutched his ring close, sending all his love and gratitude through the connection as hard as he could. _Get some rest, angel. I’ll see you soon._

__

__

Though still tired, the warmth in his ring grew even more affectionate at the promise. Then, the connection quieted. Aziraphale must’ve fallen asleep.

Crowley raised his eyes skyward. He knew that wasn’t technically the direction of what he was looking for, but it seemed as good a direction as any for addressing the Almighty.

“You’d better appreciate him,” he growled. “He’s the only truly good angel You have left. If You don’t give him everything good the world has to offer, well…I’ll be having words with You.”

He didn’t receive a reply for his threatening prayer. He almost preferred it that way; if God ever decided to talk to him again, She probably wouldn’t have nice things to say about Her Fallen child. But it still brought him some comfort to know that at least he could _try_ to stand up for his husband, protecting him the way Aziraphale had always protected him.

If he couldn’t get the storybook happy ending for him _and_ his angel, he could at least try to secure something like it for the one who wasn’t damned.

For now, having done all he could do on that front, he curled up to sleep. He would end up accidentally sleeping the entire three weeks of the voyage, amusing the ship’s passengers at how little the thin, redhaired man must need to eat. 

Little did they know that all Crowley needed to sustain him was the silver ring he clutched loosely in his hand, while dreams of sea-gray eyes and hair like moonlight danced behind his closed lids.


End file.
